


We'll Figure It Out

by strawberrywine17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consequences, Fix-It, Gen, Mentions of Mary Morstan - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, i guess, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrywine17/pseuds/strawberrywine17
Summary: John was a doctor; he knew exactly how much someone could do in twenty measly minutes. He’d been witness to Sherlock’s caseless episodes, how wound up and riled and needing of a distraction he could get. Now, with not just boredom but the near irresistible burn of addiction scratching at every inch of his skin, where did John think that he should be alone for twenty minutes?Unless, of course, John had left on purpose.-----Fix-it fic for TLD; wherein John actually does try to leave, Sherlock is allowed his own breakdown, John faces the consequences of his actions, and they both find comfort in each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [addignisherlock (tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=addignisherlock+%28tumblr%29).



> This was written for a prompt from the lovely addignisherlock on tumblr that can be found [here;](http://reichenbachsleuth.tumblr.com/post/156814499377/imagine-the-roles-being-reversed-in-the-hug-scene) I've changed a few details of the original prompt to make it flow and stay in character better. I hope she, and everyone else who reads this, enjoys it!

“Molly’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was talking about. He blinked, just before realization swept over him. Ah. John wished to leave. Hardly surprising, considering everything that had happened. All the same, he blinked again, the corners of his mouth twitching down infinitesimally before he managed to crack a faint smile. It was barely there, but it was there-- John would take it for what it was. After all, the man saw what he wanted to see. If he wanted to see Sherlock as being fine to be alone so soon out of the hospital, that was what he was going to see.

His eyes fell to his hands for a moment, fingers wrapped loosely around his cup of tea. “Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision,” he hummed, glancing back up at John. Lips pressing together, he waited, _hoping…_

“Well, if you’re sure.” John brought the mug to his mouth, taking a sip of the tea. It was easy for him. _Everything_ was easy for him. Blaming Sherlock, beating him, _abusing_ him, writing him off, ignoring him, _abandoning_ him. Everything. Leaving him now-- it was no more of a sacrifice to John than foregoing the rest of his tea in the process of going. Sherlock had to look away, his jaw clenching, the attempted smile falling. It was only when John moved forward and spoke again that he was able to drag his eyes back. “Uh, sorry, it’s just, um, you know, Rosie.”

Ah, yes. Another stipulation on their relationship. There was Rosie to consider now. John was a father, he couldn’t just drop everything for the detective. “Yes, of course, Rosie,” he agreed, nodding faintly. How had she managed to slip his mind?

The now-familiar sting of hurt laced through his stomach as John narrowed his eyes, peering at him through disbelieving slits. “You’ll be okay for twenty minutes?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, appeasing. Placating. “Yes, sorry. I-I wasn’t thinking of Rosie.” It wasn’t a lie. It would have been a good thing to lie about, but Sherlock was _so tired_ of lying. And judging by this exchange, he wouldn’t be able to stop any time soon, either. One seed of truth among the multitude of lies was the best he could do at the moment.

His former flatmate pushed himself to his feet. It was difficult not to open his mouth, to beg for him to stay, to dissuade the cold burning of loneliness and abandonment in his chest. That wouldn’t do, however. Of course it wouldn’t. “No problem,” John reassured, taking a step towards the door.

 _Try again,_ the thought came. _Be a part of his life._

Teeth grinding almost painfully, he looked back down at his cup, trying to find something, anything, that would allow him back in. Thankfully, Rosie posed the perfect opportunity. “I should, uh, come and see her soon.” He peeked back at John.

Whatever hopes he’d had were quickly and abruptly dashed. John’s look could break stone. “Yes,” he replied flatly. It did not take a genius like Sherlock to understand the hidden undertone. His voice said yes, but his hard eyes, his downturned mouth, his clenched fists spoke otherwise.

And that was that.

There was nothing else he could say. Even if he tried, whatever came to mind-- the recordings with Culverton being inadmissible, asking if John was alright-- they would not go over all that well, of that he was sure. Either John would get angry again (which Sherlock definitely did not want) or he’d salt the already deep wounds with bitterness.

Sherlock’s head bowed with acceptance. He swallowed heavily, lips trembling, brow twitching when the door shut behind John. Just like that, he was gone. Just like always, he wouldn’t be coming back. Carefully, slowly, he moved the mug to the end table, his vision beginning to blur. Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes to deal with John’s hatred and his own guilt, to drag out his hidden collection of drugs, to shoot up before Molly arrived. She wouldn’t notice a thing, of that he was sure. He had too much practice.

No one deceives like an addict.

Still, there was a niggling of something awful at the back of his mind. John was a doctor; he knew _exactly_ how much someone could do in twenty measly minutes. He’d been witness to Sherlock’s caseless episodes, how wound up and riled and needing of a distraction he could get. Now, with not just boredom but the near irresistible burn of addiction scratching at every inch of his skin, where did John think that he should be alone for _twenty minutes?_

Unless, of course, John had left on purpose.

Bile rose to the back of his throat at the same time as the tears in his eyes broke free to cut harsh tracks down his cheeks. _Of course._ John had done his duty; he had saved Sherlock, he had protected the man that Mary had nearly sentenced to death, had been the staying force between the detective and the grim reaper one more time. What happened now-- it was none of his business. Sherlock had hit the drugs and gone after Culverton in the hopes of saving the man and now, once he had recognized those deeds, John had washed his hands of his former flatmate.

Tears dripped off his chin and landed on his trousers, the heat of each one tangible as they soaked into the fabric. For a moment, that was all it was. And then, like a dam breaking, a blockage built up in his throat until the only way to expel it was to let the sob he was holding back rock through his body. It wracked his thin frame and the tears only increased. This wasn’t Sherlock’s normal crying-- wasn’t him laying on his bed, utterly silent, pillow and hair becoming wet on either sides of his head. No, this was an earthquake in his body that was intent on leaving no survivors, restrained the air in his lungs and forcing his spine to crack in half, arms wrapping around his aching ribs, slender fingers trembling as they fisted in the soft silk of his dressing gown.

John hated him. That was the only explanation for it. Everything that he had done for the doctor, and _John hated him._

“Sorry, nearly forgot my coat-- um, Sherlock?”

Sherlock jerked his head up. He hadn’t heard John come back up the stairs; why hadn’t he waited a little bit longer? He really was a screw up, wasn’t he? “S-sorry,” he choked out, unwrapping his arms from around himself with some difficulty, shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes. It did nothing to slow the flow. Unbidden, another sob tore through him. “Sorry,” Sherlock repeated, but for a different reason now, not apologizing for the state of himself anymore, but instead for _everything else._ “I’m s-so sorry, I’m so-- J-John…” The doctor’s name was a desperate plea, a prayer to the one deity he believed in.

“Sorry for what? What’s wrong?”

It took effort to force the next words out. They were hardly more than a whisper. “Y… You h-hate me.”

“...Oh, Sherlock.” John’s footsteps stuttered as he came forward, as though unsure how to face the situation. Sherlock didn’t blame him. He’d never allowed the man to see him like this, hadn’t broken down for _years,_ not since he’d been somewhere off in Singapore under the name Ryan Lee, six months after faking his own death. And the time prior to that had been before he’d met John. It was only reasonable, then, that the poor man didn’t know exactly what to do.

But it was also reasonable why Sherlock flinched when he felt calloused hands grasp onto his shoulders.

His breath became even shorter but he forced his eyes open, staring down at his lap. John was right there in front of him, leaning so close that Sherlock could feel the heat from his body seeping into his legs. There was a pause in John’s movements as he registered the flinch, the shortness of breath, the subservient bow of his head. And then, the strangest thing happened. Sherlock blinked as a drop of water landed on his arm. The angle was all wrong; it wasn’t one of the tears that were dripping off his own chin and soaking into the material of his dressing gown. It was coming from above.

Carefully, oh so carefully, Sherlock looked up. The tears were indeed not his. They belonged to John. The fracture in his heart split even wider at the realization, but he wasn’t afforded a moment to say anything before John’s legs gave out under him. His knees barely missed Sherlock’s toes, his hands stayed where they were, and his body slumped down over the detective’s lap. The doctor’s nose pressed against the curve of his shoulder. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” John bit out, his voice waver. “I didn’t-- I shouldn’t had done what I did. I shouldn’t have h-hit you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The worst kind of confusion filled Sherlock’s chest. John was apologizing to him? But why? “I… I deserved it, John. I _deserved--”_

“Don’t. Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence.” The man’s voice was wet and he drew back. One hand raised to press against the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, a few of the fingers spilling out over the smooth column of his throat. He was awarded the view of John’s eyes, stormy and wavering with quiet tears. “Y-you didn’t deserve _any_ of that. None of it. Do you understand me? _None of it._ I was an arse, and I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Not… Not like that.”

“But Mary died--”

“--saving your life,” John interrupted. “It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could e-ever make her do _anything_ …” He paused, trying for a little smile. It didn’t work out well, and in the end, he had to wipe away the tears from his cheeks with his free hand. “But the point is: you did not kill her.”

In all the comfort there was in those words, there was still a bitterness to it. It stung the back of his throat, like a claw raking its way through the soft lining of the passageway. “I…” He stopped, swallowed, his lower lip trembled, more tears fell. “I-I don’t know what to do.” Slowly, as though testing boundaries, walking on eggshells, Sherlock raised his hands. His arms slipped around his waist, holding him close, and there wasn’t so much as a downward twitch of the lips from John. It was reassuring; in a moment, his fingers dug into the soft fabric of the doctor’s shirt in the same way he might cling to a lifeline.

The hand on his jaw raised to wipe away the tears from under his eyes, gentle and careful, so close that when he blinked, his eyelashes brushed against John’s calloused skin. “Neither do I,” he admitted, raising his head to bring Sherlock close, the other arm slipping around his shoulders and pulling him in. “But it’ll be alright. We’ll figure it out, Sherlock. We will.”

Sherlock went willingly, tucking himself cheek to cheek with the older man. “How?” he asked, voice quiet, broken. It seemed impossible to be able to move on from here-- from everything that had happened.

“The same way we figure everything out.” John’s words were a quiet comfort in his ear, his fingers slipping to his hair to tangle in the curls and the heat of the tears on his shoulder seeping through to his skin. It was gentle, sweet in a way that he hadn’t seen in John since Mary had died. And never, never even then, had it been directed at him. “Together.”

Perhaps things _would_ be alright.

_Together._


End file.
